


syondic

by esstiel



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble Collection, Drabbles, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:28:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esstiel/pseuds/esstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of my cullrian tumblr prompt fics. most will be short, some will be loosely formatted--more stream-of-consciousness than actual fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. LetsPlayer AU

“You’re doing that on purpose!”

Dorian cackles gleefully as Cullen throws his hands into the air, mouse tossed onto the desk in frustration. He laughs even harder at Cullen’s glare, the smile quirking the corners of his lips betraying his attempt at anger.

Their piece of bread flopped sadly in the sink on screen, doomed to a soggy death instead of the toast it was destined to be.

There are tears gathering at the corners of Dorian’s eyes and he wipes them away with the back of his hand, breathing deeply to stop his laughter. “The look on your face,” he says once he’s under control, “I wish I had a camera to memorialize it. I would build a shrine to that look, and worship to it every time I felt the least bit glum.”

Cullen grumbles under his breath and adjusts their shared mic, a blush rising to his cheeks. 

 

======

 

Dorian stares at Cullen as he walks into the office. “Glasses?”

Cullen continues to edit their latest video, headphones off one ear. His response of “I’m disastrously blind without them” is distracted as his finger click-click-clicks on the mouse, dragging and cutting and shaping video clips. Cullen’s about as pro at editing as you can get for someone with zero training.

Dorian hums under his breath and crosses the room to stand beside Cullen’s chair. His arms cross, fingers tapping against his biceps. “Truly? Why haven’t you worn them before?”

“Contacts,” is the short response he gets and Dorian snorts.

“For some reason, I don’t believe you. I bet they’re those 3D glasses from the theater with the plastic popped out.” And with that he reaches around and pokes.

His finger doesn’t meet open space and—as is the nature of poking at someone’s eye—Cullen’s eyeball, however. It’s stopped by glass, soon followed by Cullen’s arm swinging wildly as he yells. He spins around in his chair, and his wild motion ends up knocking Dorian right on his ass.

Cullen’s glasses hang askew from his ears and he hurriedly pulls them from his face, wiping away Dorian’s finger print and checking for damage. Finding them satisfactory, he puts them back on and levels a glare at Dorian, who’s still sitting on the floor. “Seriously? Was that necessary?”

Dorian smiles sweetly, his attempt at innocence ruined by the look in his eye. “Well, I had to be sure. Consider it an experiment.”

Cullen makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat and spins back around in his chair, turning his attention back to Final Cut Pro X. Dorian stands and wraps his arms around his shoulders, resting his chin in the crook of Cullen’s neck. After a moment, Cullen mutters, “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The quick kiss on his cheek is the only apology he’ll get.

 


	2. Post-Coital Cuteness

The sensation of fingers tracing circles into his forearm draws Dorian into the waking world. A hand is carding fingers through his hair and he resists the urge to lean his head into it. Instead he feigns sleep, hoping that if he pretends to be asleep the hands won’t stop.

Lips press into his bare shoulder, his collarbone, his neck; a nose nuzzles into the underside of his jaw, stubble scratching against his smooth skin. Dorian can’t help the hitch to his breath–the stubble manages to itch and tickle at the same time and he smiles. So not a dream, then. 

Yawning, he opens his eyes, blinks against the light streaming into the room from the hole in the roof. Cullen hums against his skin, a rumbling in his chest that Dorian can feel more than he can hear.

“Did I wake you?” he asks and his voice is thick with sleep; Dorian turns his head until his cheek rests in Cullen’s hair. 

“Mm, yes you did you horrible, horrible man.” 

Cullen chuckles, yawns; the hand on his forearm moves to rest on Dorian’s stomach under the blankets, gently running his fingertips across his skin. Dorian shivers, turns over to wrap his arms around the other man.

He could get used to this.


	3. PTA Parent AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one may one day turn into a full blown fic

“Are you dating my art teacher?”

Cullen chokes on his water. “W– _cough_ –what?” He wipes water and drool from his chin on the back of his hand and stares down at his son, who stares right back up at him with not a care in the world.

Rylen doesn’t respond though, he just stares up at him with narrowed eyes and  _Maker_  when did Rylen learn to dissect someone with his eyes like that?

Probably Dorian.

A hundred different responses bloom on Cullen’s tongue but they tangle there in his mouth, his brain too caught off guard to articulate any of them. “I… maybe?” is what finally comes out and he winces at how silly he sounds, cheeks reddening. 

Rylen regards him coolly, crosses his arms. “ _Uh-huh_ ,” he says, and how can a kid so small have so much sass already?

“Don’t you have homework you should be doing?” Cullen turns him around and pushes him towards the door leading to the living room.

“But this  _is_  my homework!”


	4. Last Days

The sound of laughing children is what finally pulls Dorian from his reverie, pulls him until he’s standing on the porch. He leans against the railing to take some pressure off his bad hip, a fond smile pulling at his lips at the scene before him.

Even now, Cullen can’t keep away from the children. The grandchildren of friends and family, of people in the neighboring villages, all looking to talk to the First Commander of the Inquisition. Cassandra’s son now holds the title but even so his children still come here to listen to stories and to play at sword fighting.

Right now, Cullen’s hunched low in the tall grass, moving around like a man half his age as he prowls. Lion Tag, they call it, this game where the kids chase each other around and occasionally Cullen captures one, turning them too into a lion until there’s only one child left.

It’s a silly game, but it keeps them all entertained (and keeps Cullen spry, which is always a good thing as they age), up until the point that one spots him on the porch.

A chorus of “Dorian!” fills the air as ten dirty little hellions sprint at him like the pride of lions they like to pretend to be. He pretends to hate their hugs, loathe their kisses, but he returns each one with equal affection, never minding the mud and grass that ends up covering him as much as the rest of them.

And then Cullen is there, more grey in his hair than blonde, face etched with lines of laughter and pain alike. Time has been kind to them both, considering what they’ve been through, but Dorian is forever grateful that time has done nothing to Cullen’s eyes.

Eyes that look at him now the way they did thirty years ago, honey brown and warm.


	5. Clothing Trolling

Dorian has always told him that people are easily distracted, but it isn’t until now that Cullen truly understands what he means.

The war council meeting for today is a complete and total waste of time–Josephine is too busy hiding her smile behind her hand and clearing her throat to give a decent report, Leliana is staring at him with that ‘future blackmail’ look of hers that makes him want to piss himself in terror, and Lavellan is entirely too interested in the view. There’s a glint in his eye that, under different circumstances, would make Cullen’s face catch on fire.

But not today.

Cool air nips at his bare shoulder, leather hugs his chest and thighs. There’s something about it that makes him feel more confident, powerful, even. It’s enough of a boost to even make other people react to him differently. The soldiers he spars with in the afternoon, the staff in the kitchens–Maker, even  _Varric._

He catches a glance of Dorian out of the corner of his eye, stomping around in his armor and scaring Orlesian nobles in the main hall, the fur of his cloak pulled up close to his neck, and smiles.

Perhaps they should switch clothes more often.


	6. Drunken Shenanigans

**_bzzzz_ **

dorian’s phone wakes him up at why-the-fuck-o-clock (which turns out to be 2pm, but that is neither here nor there), vibrating louder than josephine’s toy he found when snooping under her bed last month

**_bzzzz_ **

groaning he blinks sleep from his eyes, wrinkles his nose at the post binge-drinking taste in his mouth and grabs his phone. even with the sunlight streaming into his room the screen is painfully bright, which only serves to make the headache pounding behind his eyes all the worse

two texts, from a number he doesn’t recognize. usually he would ignore it, go back to sleeping off whatever the fuck it is that he was drinking last night, but this time he reads them

**[text]: hey,  it’s cullen.**

**[text]: would you like to get coffee sometime?**

wait. wait. wait wait wait. what? how did cullen get his number? how does cullen even know  _who he is_? dorian’s only ever seen him in the library (him being one of the student librarians) when there for study group, and he has absolutely no recollection of giving away his number…

quickly he texts josie

**[dorian]: I NEED YOU**

**[josie]: ??? did something happen???**

**[dorian]: WHAT DID I DO LAST NIGHT**

**[josie]: … before you challenged bull to a drink-off or after?**

**[dorian]: fuck. shit. motherfucking shitdick god damn it**

**[dorian]: somehow cullen got my number last night**

**[josie]: oh shit, does he know?**

**[dorian]: i don’t know but i am going to MURDER whoever gave him my phone number… but it was probably me so im conflicted**


	7. Herald!Dorian AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: I've seen people's interpretations of Cullen as inquisitor, but what if Dorian were the one to become Herald?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pre-cullrian

When he wakes in a prison cell and is asked who he is and where he’s from, he lies. “I don’t know,” he says, eyes wide like a doe, innocent and confused. “Where am I?”

He lies because it’s easier than the truth,  _safer_  than the truth.

A Tevinter mage walking out of the Fade in the flesh? May as well wrap the noose around his neck himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he wakes in Haven and feels the mark burning in his palm, he’s reminded that he can’t just walk away from this. There is no where to run, no brothel to disappear into, no alcohol to drown away  _this_  problem and it makes him physically ill to be so trapped.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Corypheus makes himself known, he realizes that he cannot hide who he is. How can he aspire to make his homeland a better place if he doesn’t prove that good things can still come from Tevinter? What better way to change the opinions of his home and inspire his fellow countrymen to rise above the politics of their degenerate government than to stand as the Blessed Herald of Andraste?

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he finally tells the truth, lays down the burden of his deception at the feet of those who have come to trust him, he weathers the storm with as much grace as he can muster. When the truth leaks out to the rest of Skyhold, he hides in his quarters when he’s not needed, wary of shadows.

Twice now someone has attempted to poison his food. He would go to someone–anyone–for help but there’s no where to turn, not so long as he wears this brand on his hand.

Heretic, it marks him. Blasphemer. Deceiver. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he finds the strength to venture out of his rooms, it’s to the sound of the Commander shouting at his soldiers in the main hall.

“I don’t care if he’s a pile of dung fresh from the ass of an Antivan war horse,” he bellows; it echos through the hall, met with uncomfortable silence. “Was it not Dorian who stopped the Breach from growing, who travels almost nonstop to close the rifts in the countryside, who nearly  _died_  to give  _you ungrateful bastards_  the chance to flee while that dragon burned Haven to the ground?”

He retreats to his room as the Commander continues to berate his troops, heart pounding in his chest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the Commander pulls him aside after a war table meeting, he doesn’t know what to expect. But it certainly isn’t a bashful smile, awkward shifting. “Do you perhaps play chess?” he asks and quite suddenly he realizes this is a chance to interact with someone outside of tactics and politics. It isn’t until now that he also realizes how desperate he is for normal human interaction.

But it isn’t in his nature to seem eager, so he bites the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning and answers with a witty, “That depends. Do you perhaps enjoy being beaten at chess?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the blacksmith doesn’t spit at him when he visits the undercroft to get some minor repairs to his greaves, he has to swallow down the lump that forms in his throat.

It’s a start.


End file.
